


The Intuitive Art of Touch

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Intimacy, M/M, Shaving, Shaving Kink, Up close and personal, unknowing incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The look that Dean’s giving him isn’t a look that belongs to Dean Smith, vice president of marketing. It’s older and darker, and Sam’s seen it before, quite literally in his dreams.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Intuitive Art of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to riyku for her fast beta. Any and all mistakes that remain are my own.
> 
> Written for spn_masquerade

“Are you serious?” Sam says.

Dean gives him a deeply unimpressed look, one that says he heard this joke once, didn’t much like it, can’t understand why the experience would be repeated. “I’m as serious as a quarterly report, Wesson,” he says and that’s how Sam knows Dean’s getting pissy.

“All right,” Sam says and holds up his hands in the universally understood gesture for taking it down a notch. “You’re serious. But why? It’s not harming anyone. You didn’t seem to mind before,” and okay maybe he’s trying to antagonize Dean a little bit. It’s the only way to break him out of the vice president of marketing shell he seems to try and wrap himself up in sometimes, as though this is only a temporary experience on the way to global financial domination. Referencing the spur of the moment, undignified handjob that Dean hadn’t acknowledged since seemed like it’d do it.

Dean refuses to rise to the bait though. “It’s unhygienic,” he says primly, and Sam’s pretty sure he’s joking.

“Unhygienic,” he says blankly. “I’ve got a WedMD page that’ll disagree with you.”

“There are several Yahoo Answers, that take my side of the issue,” Dean snaps back, then visibly takes a breath. “Apart from that, it looks better, it feels better, and it’s going to solve several _gunk_ issues that I foresee cropping up in our future,” and he pronounces the word gunk with such deep and delicate disgust that Sam’s kind of fascinated by Dean’s clearly fertile imagination. Then Dean looks up, just for a second from the pen he’s toying with, and Sam gets everything that Dean isn’t saying.

For whatever reason, Dean wants this from Sam, and there’s something in Sam that wants to give it to him. It’s got nothing to do with surprise handjobs (or rather, not _much_ to do with surprise handjobs) and everything to do with that lurch of feeling he sometimes gets when Dean looks at him right, the dreams that haven’t stopped coming, the inevitable and unbreakable connection that stretches between them, that Sam’s known about from the beginning. Okay it’s a little bit weird, even a lot weird and Sam’s not completely sure how long Dean’s rigorous grooming routine is going to last on the road, when they’ve been asked to leave several places already thanks to Dean’s rigorous no carb, no gluten, no taste diet.

“Come on,” he says, a little more gently now. “Tell me why and I will.” He holds his breath, just a little, because getting a straight answer out of Dean is like pulling teeth even when Dean’s trying to be open - so many layers of management speak that Sam needs a degree in human resources just to begin to unpick it.

“I feel like we ought to take a holistic approach to synergizing our energies,” Dean says at last, carefully picking his words. He drags a hand across his mouth and pulls a couple of beers out of the fridge. Sam just as carefully doesn’t mention the carb content when he accepts his. He also doesn’t respond to the meaningless garble Dean just said. There’s a second’s pause. “I want you to,” Dean says at last. “I’m just a little freaked okay?”

They’re getting down to the heart of the matter now and Sam’s beginning to understand. Because Dean’s good with knives and guns and his body in a way that can’t be explained by any hot yoga and team building archery sessions, and Sam can acknowledge that he’s in the same boat. He doesn’t have the body of a man who spends his day in a cubicle and he doesn’t know where he learnt to throw a knife so straight and true that he can trust that it’ll hit the mark. He was having the life choked out of him by this _thing_ and it was Dean who saved him, with a knife thrown so close to Sam’s head he’d almost felt it whistle through his hair. Dean’s been quietly freaking out since then.

Of course the secondary implications of that take a second to sink in. “You want me to let _you_ do it?” he says.

“Are you saying I wouldn’t do a good job?” Dean says, and Sam kind of thinks that he isn’t wrong in wondering how this became less about _whether_ Sam was going to, to shave his balls or whatever, and turned into who was going to do it for him, and that for a guy who’d gone silent and sullen over a damn handjob, Dean seemed kind of eager to get up and personal with Sam’s junk.

“I know you would,” Sam says, and the rest of it crowds to his lips - questions, quibbles, worries but he chokes it all back because Dean’s giving him this look again, and Sam doesn’t really care how weird it is anymore. “Fine,” he says, because he isn’t winning this one. “But if you castrate me, there are going to be words.”

“More like screeching probably,” Dean says, and that was _definitely_ a joke, Sam is about ninety percent sure of it.

Turns out it’s one thing to blithely agree to let your not-quite-friend, not-quite-lover to enact their personal grooming standards on your body and it’s another thing to actually go through with it. Sam’s locked himself in the bathroom - it’s not running away, it’s a strategized redeployment of his person - and damn, Dean’s really beginning to rub off on him. Whatever it is, he’s staring at himself in the mirror, running  a hand through hair that he hasn’t bothered to get cut since they’ve started this, and trying not to hyperventilate.

It’s as though it’s all come to a head at once - Dean’s had the steeper learning curve and his freak outs along the way, but Sam’s beginning to think he might not have handled it all that well himself, as though he’s been saving the big crisis up for now. It’s all of it. Being choked by a monster, watching that ghost vanish whose only crime had been being murdered by some psychopath, and now a guy wants to shave him, wants to hold something sharp against the most private bit of him and Sam can’t even explain to himself how it makes him feel. Sharp tinge of fear and underneath it, this anticipation that sings along his nerves.

Who the fuck is Dean Smith? It’s a question that hasn’t left him, not since Dean turned in his resignation and came down to meet him like whatever Sam felt, Dean felt it too, something drawing them together. His dreams are no help at all, beginning to blend with real life now, but there’s something he’s missing, he’s sure of it. Something huge, game changing even. But whatever’s between them, whatever it is he’s missing, right now he’s promised Dean something. So he takes the damn shower he’d said he was in here for, cleans himself meticulously, face flushing hot because Dean’s going to see him, and Sam knows he’s got a good body but this is different. He gets everywhere, in between each toe, spends way longer on his crotch than he needs to, and it’s only when he catches himself conditioning his hair for the second time that he reluctantly acknowledges that he’s delaying the inevitable.

He lets the water swirl out of the tub, swills the bath tub clean and dries himself before he opens the door. Dean’s sitting on the bed, pretending he hasn’t been waiting, copy of the _Wall Street Journal_ upside down in his hands, and Sam swallows, feels his heart doing double time in his chest, cold suddenly in his towel, exposed in a way that doesn’t feel right. He’s about to call the whole thing off when Dean stands and takes off his tie, loosens it with clever fingers and twists it neatly around one of the wooden hangers he’d insisted on bringing with him, takes off his shirt as well, matter of fact, and puts on a t-shirt that Sam can’t help noticing actually belongs to _Sam_. Then he takes off his pants and folds them neatly, stands there in boxers and an old t-shirt. It’s the least formal Sam’s ever seen him - the man wears _pajamas_ to bed, and he gets it. Dean’s as weird as Sam is, in a whole different way but Dean gets him on some level neither of them understand. This whole deal isn’t one way, and Sam suddenly kind of wonders how much of Dean’s ‘young, rising star of Sandcorp’ behavior has been to make Sam feel at ease, to distract him from everything else.

“I’m ready,” Sam says, and wonders where the hell this is going to happen. In the bathtub makes the most sense he supposes, but there really isn’t room.

Dean’s prepared for that though. He pats the edge of the bed and Sam sees the towels. “Sit here,” he says, tones back the bossiness a bit, and Sam flops back, stares at the ceiling, paralyzed with embarrassment and nerves. “Want a t-shirt?” Dean asks him. Sam actually would love a t-shirt, and a pair of boxers and maybe some pants and a parka, anything that means he’s not going to flop his dick out in front of Dean in the next thirty seconds.

“No,” Sam says shortly. “Can we just get on with it?” Sam’s fingers are in the bedspread and wrinkling it from the tension that’s beginning to cripple him.

“Sam, we really don’t have to do this. It was a stupid idea anyway - you’re entitled to keep that bush business of yours intact if you want to,” and Sam can tell that Dean’s about twenty seconds from putting that tie back on and pretending that he doesn’t really want to do this, when it’s the first real thing Dean’s asked for since they took off, if Sam ignores his demands for Coors Light and his insistence that Dean gets to drive all the time.

“Dean, you get thirty seconds to get started or it’s not getting done.” Targets are Dean’s weakness, it’s like a red flag to a bull.

“Don’t be bossy,” Dean mutters, which is the pot calling the kettle black really but he’s finally doing something, unwrapping a razor and carrying a bowlful of hot water in from the bathroom. He puts them on a chair as far as Sam can tell, then his face looms into Sam’s vision. “You might want to sit up,” he says, and there’s something deliberate in his eyes. “So you can see how it’s done.” _So you can watch me doesn’t get said._

Adding to the embarrassment of propping himself up with pillows, so he can see Dean, face rigid with concentration bend between his legs in what is an unfairly unsexy way given everything, and Sam can feel the faint nervous spasm in his belly and spine, a hard wire of tension that isn’t relaxing no matter how much he tells himself that Dean clearly has done this a number of times. It’s still a shock when Dean touches him, handles him as familiarly as though he’s done this before, and what’s even more shocking is that Sam feels like he has, this ghosting sensation of familiarity that does nothing to disarm the locked tight primal fear in his body.

Dean’s got a bottle of something that looks uncomfortably like lube in his hands, but he puts it to the side for a second, tilts his face up to Sam and explains. “I’m going to trim you first, no way I can do it up front.” He has a wicked looking little pair of scissors in his hand, expensive steel and Sam feels the jolt of apprehension like a physical blow as Dean gets started, takes these little tufts of hair between his fingers and begins.

Sam’s never thought of himself as especially hairy, but the hair mounts up fairly steadily, a little neat pile of it on a piece of paper as Dean focuses on his job, face intent, and tells Sam that usually he’d use a body hair trimmer but he’s neglected to bring his. Sam can’t quite relax, not with the wicked snip of the scissors so close - even barbers give him the shudders sometimes, but Dean’s quick and careful and never once looks up from his job, and Sam’s almost convinced himself to relax just a little, when Dean goes back to the lube bottle and pours a splash of it on his hand and then smoothes it onto Sam’s balls, the base of his cock and all around. He’s careful and methodical about it, and the oil is just cold enough that Sam’s first reaction to his touch isn’t arousal, but it’s a close thing, and as the oil warms and he catches the faintest scent of _Dean_ floating up to him, that gets kind of out of hand. He’s on the edge now, body tense and bowed from the awkward position of half lying back, half peering down and the fear and arousal together in his stomach are making him feel almost sick.

He wants to tell Dean to ignore that Sam’s thickening up, just a little, but that’d be like pointing out the obvious, so he bites his lip and pretends that this is normal, this is absolutely what he’d signed up for on this Jack Kerouac spank bank road trip experience. Dean doesn’t comment on it at all, doesn’t touch him more or less, same gentle efficient movements before he reaches for the lather and smoothes it on with the same precision and focus that Sam has no doubt Dean brought to mergers and meetings, the same focus he’s seen in Dean’s eyes as he scans local newspapers for suspicious looking cases and looked at ghosts he’s ready to burn. The one that he hides under everything else like he thinks there’s something to be ridiculed about it. It’s displayed out there now for Sam to see if he wants to and he tries not to think about what’s coming, looks at the intense curve of Dean’s face instead.

He just about manages not to flinch when Dean picks up the razor. For some reason he’d thought Dean was just about enough of a dick to whip out a straight razor and give Sam a heart attack on the spot but it’s a Gillette, designed for a close shave but as Dean tells him, not too close. The reassurance does nothing for Sam’s overtaxed adrenaline gland. He’s in a state now of almost hyper constant awareness and he can’t tell exactly why. It should be enough of an explanation perhaps that he’s letting Dean hold a blade this close to his balls but there’s more to it - he’s not afraid of Dean’s hand slipping, not after that knife throw. A man who can throw like that can be trusted with a razor. Maybe he’s just afraid that it’s Dean’s hands, afraid of the confused shudder of emotions that runs through his body when Dean touches his skin, when he surfaces from tangled garbled dreams where Dean is Dean is Dean, and Sam can’t look away.

Dean is utterly methodical at every stage and Sam shivers under his hands, just a little, before fear reminds him to remain still. It feels as strange as he’d imagined, delicate scrape first around his cock, at the base, denuding him of every scrap of hair, Dean’s fingers sure and certain as he maneuvers Sam’s dick deftly, stretches the skin with his thumb before working away, swift dunk of the razor in the bowl of water before he returns to the fray. It feels lighter, colder almost as soon as Dean’s finished and Sam’s not sure if that’s psychosomatic or not - either way he’s not sure if he likes it. Then Dean’s deftly moving the flushed, half hard length of Sam’s cock away, and running a finger down the seam of his balls like this is something he does every day, and Sam can’t restrain himself, jerks against the touch before he forces himself back down, feels the blood mount to his face like that’ll stop it from swelling his dick.

There’s not a blink of an eye from Dean though, and slowly, slowly the tension begins to melt out of Sam. This is the single weirdest thing he’s ever done and that includes walking out of a job in the current economy and killing a ghost, but, in the oddest of ways he feels safe. Like he’s meant to be here, with Dean, in a shitty hotel room, on the wrong end of a blade. His hypothetical therapist (if mental health care had been included in the meager list of Sandcorp benefits) would have had a field day with that. The sharp poke of the tension in his spine lessens, and he can feel the overtaxed muscles in his legs relax a little, as uncomfortably splayed as they are. He hadn’t even realized how wound up he was until he let go just a little bit. Dean’s being utterly careful - every time he scrapes a little bit of hair off, he’s using his thumb to keep the wrinkled skin of Sam’s balls as taut as he can, before drawing the razor down in a short shivery line, and then with a flourish lifting it and moving onto the next inch. For such a small area, it takes a surprisingly long time and Sam almost becomes accustomed to it - the whisper fine touch of metal, the firm grip of Dean’s fingers, the slippery feel of the shaving cream.

The thought swims up, half frightening, half arousing that Dean might not stop there. Sam’s guiltily read a few _Men’s Health_ magazines in his time, and he knows what else can be shaved. He doesn’t borrow trouble though, lets Dean finish his business, the heavy weight of his cock feeling incongruously warm and vital against the chilled skin of his balls, but Dean knocks his hand away when he tries to touch.

“Not done yet,” Dean murmurs, and there’s reverence in his voice that feels misplaced. For the first time, Sam feels on display, and rather than curling up and away from the sensation, he allows it. Stretches out a little further, long curl of leg because there’s a heat in his stomach now, fighting with the low down fear, prickle of icy anticipation in the pit of his belly aided by Dean’s touch. There’s no way this can be misinterpreted, hell it feels too right to be anything but inevitable, and his dick gives a suspicious throb at the thought as Dean nudges it aside a little once again, to finish his task.

Sam closes his eyes then, every nerve in his body on edge as Dean finishes the job he’s appointed himself, handles Sam with all the deft delicacy you could expect - smoothes his thumb along the newly exposed, vulnerable skin, a sharp tickle of sensation, almost unbearable until he withdraws for a long second, returns with a washcloth and takes away the last little bit of froth, leaves Sam smooth and bare and startlingly aware of his dick and the sudden space around it. He can’t help fumbling a hand down now, brushes against the soft expanse - until Dean again bats him away, though not before Sam’s caught a touch of the foreign smoothness around his dick, the alien uncanniness of the skin under his fingers, the sharp nervous jolt delivered to his system straight through his balls.

Dean takes longer than seems warranted in cleaning him up, short little pats of what smells like aftershave but might be antiseptic, Sam’s no expert. Whatever it is, it’s enough to tighten the skin of his balls, and to make sure he’ll associate every stroke of a razor against his chin, with this for the rest of his life. He’s bare, unveiled and suddenly he can’t stand the thought that it’s only him. When he looks up, meets Dean’s eyes, Dean gets it, fumbles out his own dick from worn boxers and lines the sleek curve of it up with Sam’s. He’s as shaved and bare as Sam, neat primness of himself abandoned in this, and they rut together. The slick slide of skin is like nothing Sam’s ever felt before, they’re wet and insistent against each other, a desperate grind. There’s mysteries inside mysteries here, things Sam can’t explain, like how he spread his legs and lay back for someone he really barely knows on some instinctive belief that he knows this man in ways that time has nothing to do with.

Sam snaps at the gasping curve of Dean’s mouth near him, worries at his lip, ripe and plump between Sam’s teeth, and Dean shudders so sweetly above him that Sam’s dick jerks just from that, abandoned urging length of it against Dean’s thigh, and Dean gets the message. He’s different like this, stripped of the suits and the cufflinks and the wild insistence on self regulation, and Sam wants to clutch him close in a way he’s never felt before, a deep sullen ache between his ribs that tells him _this is important_.

Then Dean’s there, fingers tracing ground that’s old and familiar now to him, with new intent, a gentle caress of Sam’s balls until heedless of the thrust of Sam’s hips, of the fact that Sam’s still a little slick around the base from the oil Dean had smeared on, he takes Sam into his mouth as deeply and familiarly as though they’ve done this a thousand times. Sam’s hard, thick length distorts his mouth, and Sam can’t take it, the new sensitivity of Dean’s fingertips on the bareness of his balls, arches his back, suffocating on the sensation of it all. He doesn’t know what he wants, whether he wants Dean sucking still, slow relentless jar of his mouth, swallowing him on down, or some undefined more that itches through him.

It takes everything he’s got in him to lie still and let Dean do what he wants, by nature he wants to flip them over and move this along fast and hard to a destination he’s not even sure of, grind down on Dean, fuck him, get fucked, anything that’s faster than this slow almost painful pleasure. Dean’s leisurely about it, takes his time, fingers pressing into the new softness of Sam’s skin indulgently, like he just likes to touch it as he chokes himself on Sam’s dick, and there’s same weird tinge of worship to it that there’d been in the way he’d shaved Sam, like this is something he has to do, some chance he’s taking advantage of. Then two of Dean’s fingers are sharing the same space as Sam’s dick, pushing against the head of his cock as Dean sucks harder around them both, tongue stroking down the underside, before he gets those fingers between Sam’s thighs, slippery with saliva and makes no fuss about ghosting over Sam’s hole, not pushing in or threatening penetration, just an endless slippery glide that breaks Sam’s resolve not to backseat blowjob.

His fingers are in Dean’s hair now, pulling him closer, and Dean doesn’t seem to mind, muffled grunt of enjoyment as he sucks harder, pulls back for air before he gets back to sucking, shoulders himself even closer between Sam’s legs, spreading him just a little bit more, clever finger finally pressing in like he knows now what Sam wants. His other hand is stroking down Sam’s thigh, endless motion over the muscle, digging in just a little bit as Sam thrusts up, buries himself in Dean’s mouth for a long second. Sam’s almost robbed of his own breath, caught as it is in his chest like he’s forgotten how to breathe, when it’s Dean that should be choking.

Dean ups the intensity, slippery fingers feeding their way back into Sam. It’s a sweet burn and stretch now, that he can’t decide if he likes or dislikes but that gets his dick even harder. He’s lost any last modicum of restraint now, is jerking upwards spasmodically, helplessly into Dean’s yielding mouth, so close to coming, the heavy full ache of his balls magnified by the taut drag of them on Dean’s skin, the passing touch magnified by the unfamiliar sensitivity. He needs to fuck Dean face to face, bite those newly swollen lips, do something to alleviate the great swell of sensation that’s trembling inside him. Dean pulls back a little, a deliberate hard suck to the head of Sam’s dick, quick forceful thrust of what’s closer to three fingers now, Sam thinks hazily because seconds later he’s coming, thick wet spurts that feel like they’ll never end.

When he comes down, Dean’s stopped fucking him with his fingers, is holding his balls now, gentle whisper touch dragging the final shivers from Sam. The look that Dean’s giving him isn’t a look that belongs to Dean Smith, vice president of marketing. It’s older and darker, and Sam’s seen it before, quite literally in his dreams, fierce glow of satisfaction and awe, like he can’t believe he’s done this to Sam, and as though it’s innate in him, Sam responds to it. Then the moment’s gone and Dean’s sitting up, pushing forward and stripping his cock with fingers that are trembling, and maybe even if Sam hadn’t felt the difference for himself, he’d get the whole shaved thing now, because Dean’s cock looks huge like this, length of it slamming between his fingers like he needs to get off right this second.

Sam wants to do something, pull Dean down on top of him, urge his cock to fuck the shallow crease of where his hip meets his thigh, but he’s wrung out, limp as a rag. All he can do is watch and enjoy the show, drag his hand down the strength of Dean’s thigh, a gentle coax that has its effect. In an embarrassingly short amount of time really, Dean’s coming, all over Sam’s dick, white of it obscene and sticky on the freshly shaved skin of his body, and Sam’s cock twitches futilely at the sight. Dean flops down on top of him because for a man who bitches about drinking out of the same glass as Sam, he’s remarkably quick to share personal space, even if he’d deny it for days. Sam just shifts, hot sweaty weight on top of him strangely comforting in a way, and risks a kiss to Dean’s shoulder. “Learn that at the health club did you?” he whispers.

Dean shoots him a look of malevolence from the one eye that Sam can see. “It’s called an executive networking health solutionizing strategy. Third Thursday of the month downtown.”

Sam boggles a little bit internally. “Oh,” he says and tries not to think too much about that.

“I’m joking,” Dean says.

“I knew that,” Sam replies and shifts. He’s kind of uncomfortable. Dean’s heavy, Sam’s balls are itching now and he feels wrung out and emptied, but he’s relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. He belongs right here.

**Author's Note:**

> Always appreciate any feedback.


End file.
